


Larron

by Arithanas



Series: The Count and his Valet [15]
Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
Genre: BSDM, Bath Sex, Dom/sub, Domestic, M/M, Master/Servant, Rituals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-15
Updated: 2011-07-15
Packaged: 2017-10-21 10:09:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/224010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arithanas/pseuds/Arithanas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. The author is aware that BSDM is a lifestyle and the characters are shown participating in a consensual play for their own personal satisfaction. All characters are 18 years old or older. Dumas & Maquet’s work is public domain.<br/>Synopsis: It is 1639, Blois. Domestic life and rituals became an important part in the relationship of a master and his servant. Grimaud POV.<br/>Warnings: Definitively a D/s play. Slash, or more precisely, smut, between two grown up and consenting men.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Larron

_“Life is the art of being well deceived;_  
  _and in order that the deception may succeed it must be_  
_habitual and uninterrupted”_  
~ William Hazlitt

 

By 1639, we servants knew that Saturday was the special day at Bragelonne. For us, it means that our week work would be examined, the counts would be settled and our wages would be paid; it also means that, if the first two were not adequate, punishments and fines are to be expected. For young master Raoul, it means that, if his weekly performance was satisfactory, if his lessons were well learned, he was to be the company of _M. le Comte_ in his weekly inspection of his state. So, every Saturday morning everyone, from Blaisois to me, was wide awake long before the first light. 

When _M. le Comte_ climbed down the stair, about eight o'clock in the winter, about six in summer, looking his second best attire, all had to be perfect, even if the house staff was the last to be evaluated. If all was to his satisfaction, he proceed into the dining-room, were _M. le Vicomte_ had to be waiting for him, in identically neat and tidy presence. Every other day, both of them would have a more relaxed approach to breakfast, and life in general, but that ritual was important to my master: It remembered him the days of his childhood and it settled the mood for his inspection. 

If he knew how much he looks like his father, he would be really proud. 

As the head of the house staff it was my privilege to sit at my master's table on Saturday mornings; the pretext was he had a lot of question to address me; the reality was that he wanted to show everybody his good disposition toward me. I was happy to take my seat, I had worked many years for it, but before that I had to fulfill my responsibilities and serve them both their first meal with Charlot’s help.

One fine Saturday morning of May, this ritual was about to betray us both. 

Charlot and I had been serving at that table for more than five years, and, arrogance aside, we were pretty good at it. I put the plates, he poured the drinks, you could know the drill; but that particular day I was a little clumsy because I didn't sleep well the previous night and soon Charlot get caught between _M. le Comte_ and myself, not a drop was spilled, not a plate was dropped, but I pushed him against my master and then he recoiled and heaved against me. Then, strangely, he froze in his place, puzzled. 

"Is there any trouble, Charlot?" My master inquired at this absurd behavior. 

"No, _M. le Comte_ ," he replied without delay, but his eyes said another story. "It was just that M. Grimaud smelled... fresh to me."

Innerly, I cursed the fact that my master and I were slaves of habits. 

***

Another small, private ritual of my master was that Friday night was his appointed time to care about his personal appearance. Once Raoul has recited his prayers and was tucked in his bed, my master descended to the hot-house because next to this place there was a room that had been specially set up as a bath, where I waited for him. This disposition had a lot of advantages: the hot-house's stove provided hot water and all the necessary implements could be stored in the same place. Any other day, my master could satisfy his personal hygiene needs with a washbasin and some tepid water, or, if he was overwhelmed by the heat, he could always take a swim on the Loire; but Friday nights were special, he called those nights his "upkeep" and I was in charge to fix his hair, clip his nails and shave him while he relaxed himself in a tub of hot water. Sometimes, if he was in the mood, he added some oil or salts. Last night, I helped him with his cleansing rituals because his hair need shortening and there was no other man alive that he let place a sharpened razor at his neck. Then, he poured a good deal of forest-scented oil on the piping hot water before he started to take his clothes off. 

"Come here, Grimaud," he called me out once the last piece of clothing had touched the floor. Since the summer of 1610, he was taller, and stronger, than me, and much better shaped and so well proportioned...

That Friday nights were special to me, you see, since he had a little boy sewed at his breeches, and I had a lot of responsibilities, those were the only quiet times to indulge ourselves. Those were our special nights when he felt inclined to sin a little, as he was last night. He tugged my shirt and I was happy to remove it for him; I had learned not to compare our bodies. Our bodies are as different as day and night, and I adore his body from his broad shoulders to his long legs, I drank the heavy and virile aroma that emanated from his skin, my fingers could be busy for hours caressing the soft hair that covers his chest and following the long, slim line that begins in his navel and trailed down until it meets with the dense bush of black curly hair between his legs. He smiled at me, he liked to be worshiped, as I did rather frequently; he liked to be praised; and some days, he liked to be desired; but, mostly, he liked to be obeyed, so when he placed a wet wash towel in my hand, I knew exactly what I was ordered to do.

I took the soap bar and went to my knees to start to lather him. I washed his feet, they were small for a man of his height, but that was not a rare among noble people; his ankles were slim and his calves well rounded and muscular. I reach his tights and my fingers touched his oldest scar, the one that his father made on the skin of his right thigh when he was a little boy, he was seven years and his father spanked him with a riding crop because he dared to put his hand on that jeweled sword. I kissed that scar and he caressed my hair, thankful because I remembered, not that punishment, but his father. 

While I made more foam, I nuzzled my head between his legs, to caress with my tongue the cauterized scar inside his left leg, that wound almost took his life at the battle of Nantes; I lifted my head a little, I wanted to see his face because he always got a little anxious when my kisses remembered him the red-hot iron that saved his life. To reassure me, he placed his hand at my nape and stroked it tenderly, encouraging me to keep on with my work. I did it, my hands rubbed his left leg, but temptation was so close and I didn't even dream to resist, I let my tongue and lips caress the couple of balls that were so close, I licked them, fascinated by their texture...

I didn't allow myself to be distracted from my work, my soap-covered hands caressed his groin while I place one ball inside my mouth and caress it with my tongue against my palate. He has been aroused and his cock stirred before my eyes. I was so busy to smile but I thanked Our Lord because he was still capable to do it. I exchanged the ball in my mouth and made it object of my caresses and occupied both of my hands to rub his backside, which was compact, but rock-solid, as the hind quarters of a Spanish stallion. I worked his sides with the washcloth and the soap and tried to use my mouth in his cock but his hands stopped me. 

"If you want me able to spear you, do not do it", he warned me and that sound like the sweetest promise that I could expect from him. 

I rose to my feet and hugged him. No words were enough to thank him. He nuzzled me back, my master was just human after all and this intimate gesture was so deeply rooted in him. 

"Go on, my old Grimaud," he whispered in my ear. 

But he didn't let me go, I rest my head in his shoulder and kissed his neck, I rubbed the soap against his skin and let the washcloth fell, so my fingers were free to caress his strong backside, he didn't let himself go once he left the service and even now I could let my fingers roam over his muscular back. I felt him caress my back and nuzzle my neck, his cock felt stiff against my belly, I let my fingers outline the small, depressed scar in his right shoulder, that damned thrust of Rue Férou...

I gasped when I felt his hands tugging the wet laces of my breeches, he had to be really aroused to take that initiative and that sole fact was enough to make me randy. He sensed it and let out that small, lustful laugh that set my loins afire. I was eager to help him but his hand in my small back prevented me from doing it. If it was his pleasure, I would let him undress me. By the time he had achieved to get rid from my pants, I was covering his chest with kisses and foam, the soap made us slippery against each other and if he was not supporting me I think I could slip until I hit the floor. His hands were on my bottom, his fingers were wet with the little soap that descended away from his shoulders, and, as they insinuated on the border of my ring, I thought I was about to swoon. His voice in my ear was melted butter mixed with honey when he said :

"Kneel, I want to ram you from behind..."

I loved when he uses that kind of language, it felt deliciously lascivious when those dirty words pour from his aristocratic lips. My master was not used to spare neither word nor caress, so you can comprehend my wantonness when he did addressed those wayward orders to me. I get rid of my shoes and hose and I get on hands and knees; at his mercy, I let him get his way on me. He loomed over me like the stallion mounts the mare: without a care and with all his force, but he knew that I could endure it. I felt his cock-head pressed harder and harder, the pressure building and then he fill me until I could felt I was about to burst. I grunted. He had not an enormous cock, believe me: before Bragelonne we were not exclusive, and I had seen a lot to compare. But, somehow, he seemed to be the very best, maybe it was the girth. 

My master was also better than any other lover I had, he learned from a high class courtesan how to undulated his body when he was lunging inside someone, hence, when he wants to, his hips not just bucked, they had a fabulous rhythm; and when his cock grazed my sweet spot, I couldn't support myself any longer and I focused on contain my shameful moans. I could feel the way his muscles tensed and dilated, and feel his balls grinding against mine. The dripping I was listening has nothing to do with the hot bath that was waiting for him. Then I felt it, that burning sensation in my ass... I jolted because it didn't seem right, but his hands do not let me go, his fingers dug in my hips. He sat down on his ankles and I had to follow the movement and get impaled by a good half inch of cock. It was so strangely hurtful and pleasurable...

"Burns," I complained through clenched teeth. 

"I know," he acknowledged with that lewd chuckle. He did it on purpose. "Soap burns, but you are a tough bitch... and you love it"

He stilled his movements, allowing me relish my discomfort, waiting for me to deny the fact that I am enjoying his treatment. I could not refuse it; I would not ever do it: I was the devoted toy for this _enfant gâté_ to play with... I love to be his, to torture and to caress. I let out a groan, but I willed me to remain still, waiting for him to play with me a little more. He kissed my shoulder, his hands caressed my thighs, and then began to pierce me again, so slowly, giving me time to savor my agony, to swallow my bliss.

My head lolled over his shoulder, while I shed involuntary tears. He picked up those salty drops with his tongue; and his hands, covered with some slippery substance caressed my chest, my flanks, and my hips. My master had a heavy breath, obviously he has been catching his own pleasure, he nibbled my ear and his hands rewarded me from being a good toy, and started to pull my depraved cock that still rigid in spite of the fire that was scorching my backside. My master lanced me a final time and his satisfied moan triggered my own pleasure. I spurt my seed while trying to quiet the joyful cry that I was about to shout. He took out his still engorged member from my throbbing ass and let me go. I just lay in that wet floor, trembling until he smacked my buttocks and ordered me to bring my sorry body to the bath and soak the soap before it "spoil his hole".

That was his exact phrase. 

***

Damn! I still smelled like his bath oil, and Charlot had noticed it. 

My master gave me a glance, he knew what had happened in my mind. He rose from his seat and Charlot got out of his way with a dazzling speed. He towered over me and took a whiff, of course he could smell the oil, his nose was so damned good but, for some reason, he decided to play a part I couldn't grasp. His countenance was authoritarian, his eyes were menacing, and I could sense that even Raoul was alarmed, because all his posture voiced his anger. 

“You thief!” he exclaimed and I swear to God that my surprised expression was genuine. “Charlot! Pick up that plate, this one will eat in the kitchen.”

Charlot obeyed quickly, I could read guilt in his eyes. Raoul gave me a quick glance of compassion and tried to open his mouth but he dared not to challenge his father. As for _M. le Comte_ , he returned to his seat and fixed his eyes on me. Any other person in the world could mistake that expression for just wrath but I know that impish shine in his eyes. It was amusement and lust. 

"You and I, Grimaud, will speak about your punishment when I return" he warned me, but still, that menace sound like a promise.


End file.
